Page 5 of Of Faith and Fangs

I cocked my head. “But I’m not ill.”

“This will require a constant presence,” Daddy encouraged, squeezing my shoulder. “If you pose as a patient, someone who knows what it’s like to lose a mother and be dying of the same condition, you may be able to reach her before it’s too late.”

I sighed audibly. Talking to the girl once—that was something I was happy to do. To stay in the dreadful sanatorium, a place that reeked of death, was another matter. Then again, my Jesus had subjected Himself to far worse to save me. He’d done it for Mercy, too. Even if she didn’t appreciate or understand it. Perhaps that’s exactly what I needed to do now. To take up my cross.

“Let me show you something more specific,” Mr. Brown said, retrieving Mercy’s diary—I doubted she’d expected he’d be reading it. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it. “This is from two months ago, when the consumption first took a serious hold.” The lamplight caught the yellowed page, illuminating Mercy’s handwriting. I leaned closer, drawn despite myself to the frantic energy of her words. What I read made my breath catch in my throat.

Dearest Diary, the letter began innocuously enough.

The night rituals bring me strength when the coughing fits are worst. Last evening, I crushed the herbs my father thought were medicinal tea (forgive my deception) and burned them on the windowsill. The smoke formed shapes no science can explain—faces of those long dead, reaching hands, mountains I’ve never seen. I spoke the words Moll taught me, and for three blessed hours, I didn’t cough once. The power is real. More real than what Reverend Bladewell preaches on Sundays.

I glanced up at Mr. Brown, whose face had hardened into a mask of shame and anger. “Who is Moll?” I asked quietly.

“A woman from the edge of town,” he replied, his voice tight. “Lives alone in the woods. I’ve heard whispers about her for years, but never thought...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never thought my Mercy would seek her out.”

I returned to the letter, my fingers pressing into the paper as if I could extract truth from its fibers.

Father, I suppose you’ll find this someday if I do not find a spell sufficient to cure my condition. You will say it’s the devil’s work, but I’ve seen beyond that simplistic view now. There are older powers in this world, Father. Powers that existed before the church tried to bury them under its doctrines. Powers that don’t care if I’m a respectable young lady, only that I’m willing to see.

The consumption may take this body—I’m not a fool about my chances—but Moll has shown me another way. A way to persist. To transform. On Samhain night, I spoke with Mother. Not her spirit as you might think, but HER—real and present. She looked at me with such peace in her eyes.

“Samhain,” I murmured. “Halloween.”

Mr. Brown nodded grimly. “Witch’s sabbath.”

The claim that she’d spoken with her dead mother sent a shiver through me. I’d sat with my own mother as she died, prayed for her soul’s peaceful passage. The thought of calling her back, of disturbing her rest in Heaven—it felt profoundly wrong.

“There’s more,” Mr. Brown said, turning a few pages. “This one’s from just three weeks ago.”

The handwriting in this one was more erratic, the letters tilting at uneven angles as if written by someone in a fever dream—or a trance.

The most extraordinary thing has happened. Moll has introduced me to her coven. Father, don’t look so horrified as you read this—they’re mostly ordinary women seeking control in a world that offers them none. We met under the crescent moon and I felt such POWER coursing through the earth beneath my feet, up into my weakening body.

Moll says I have a rare gift. That when I called to Cernunnos, he actually appeared—visible not just to me but to all present. This never happens, she said. She’s declared me her “daughter of the night” and promised me immortality. Someone will come within three moons to offer me a different kind of life. I won’t die, Father. I refuse.

The doctors shake their heads when they think I can’t see. They don’t understand why I’m still breathing with lungs so damaged. It’s because I’ve found another source of breath, another way to sustain this failing flesh until the savior Moll promised arrives.

The desperation in Mercy’s words was too familiar—the frantic bargaining of someone staring death in the face. But where my bargaining had taken the form of endless prayers, hers had turned to darkness.

“She writes of powers that no Christian should seek,” Mr. Brown said, his rigid posture betraying his shame. “Gods rising from the earth. Spirits answering her call. Immortality.” His voice cracked on the last word. “As if such a thing were possible. As if it wouldn’t damn her soul if it were.”

“She’s afraid,” I said softly. “Fear makes us grasp at anything that offers hope.”

“Not anything,” Daddy corrected sharply. “Faith offers hope. Prayer offers hope.”

“What she’s doing—“ Mr. Brown paused a moment. “What she’s doing invites damnation.”

I studied Mr. Brown’s face, noting the deep lines etched around his eyes, the way his mouth seemed permanently turned down at the corners. This was a man carrying a weight I couldn’t fully comprehend—watching his daughter die while simultaneously fearing for her eternal soul.

“May I see one more?” I asked, gesturing to the open diary. “You’d said before she mentioned me in one of her latest entries.”

Mr. Brown hesitated, then turned a few more pages. The handwriting had deteriorated further, some words barely legible, trailing off into scratches and strange symbols.

I dreamed of Alice Bladewell last night. The preacher’s daughter. I’ve watched her at church—the way she prays with such perfect faith, the way consumption passes her by while it devours everyone else. They say she has a gift for comforting the dying. I think it’s more than that.

I need to understand her power before my time runs out. Three moons are nearly gone, and I fear Moll’s promise may not be fulfilled. If her way fails, perhaps Alice’s spell—and there must be one—will do the trick. The voices say Alice is special—marked somehow. Protected. Maybe there’s power in her prayers that even she doesn’t understand. A power that could be... borrowed.

A chill spread through me. “She thinks I have power. She’s mistaken.”

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